


"Yes, Mother."

by missvalerietanner



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Gen, Headcanon, Mild Blood, Religion, Ritual, non-canon, religious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 19:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16311032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missvalerietanner/pseuds/missvalerietanner
Summary: Back when the town of Silent Hill was in its glory days, an eighteen year old boy at the peak of physical fitness would be chosen to wear the ceremonial helmet and wield the Great Knife. The boy would be inducted into The Order through a ritual cleansing his spirit and endowing him with the strength of the gods. Afterwards, he would attend every meeting in his full attire (skirt, knife, helmet, and bare-chested), and he would be forced to pass judgment on the unfaithful sinners (i.e. killing townspeople).[ written April 3, 2018 ]





	"Yes, Mother."

Her eyes were on me, burning my skin like the lick of those candles outside the church’s halls. I smelt the stench of their burning wax; the smell never left me. Neither did the sight of the blood, the muffled screams of those they called unworthy, untested, or unfaithful. What did faith have to do with any of this? The singe of their hot blood against my hands was the only warmth I knew anymore, but it wasn’t right. None of it was right.

“Jonathan?”

My mother. She stood in the doorway to my bedroom, and the light of the hall glowed at her back and cast her long-reaching shadow into my dark room. Another mother’s fingers and wretched claws reached as far–Dahlia Gillespie. Her breath was hotter than the fires burning beneath the church, and the odor on her tongue made my stomach turn. It was worse than the stench the drifted from beneath the door of that room in the basement of Alchemilla. I had seen enough at those meetings; I didn’t dare journey to where I wasn’t allowed. I didn’t even want to see the places where I was allowed.

“Jonathan?” Her voice was stern, uncompromising.

I craned my head to the side. She was dressed in her robe, brown and pressed to remove all wrinkles. She cared for that fabric like it was her Sunday best, and I suppose for us, it was. She held her shoulders high and level with her hands clasped calmly before her waist.

“Yes, Mother?” I asked from my perch at the foot of my bed.

“Why aren’t you ready? We’re due at the church in an hour.”

“Must I go?”

She scoffed. “Jonathan, do you not understand the honor you’ve been given?”

“I–I do. I just–”

“Do you not appreciate the role you must take?”

“No, of course I–”

She stepped deeper into the room. “Do you not wish to do your part to purify this town from the damned and unclean sinners who wish to sully our futures?”

I bowed my head and surrendered. She wouldn’t listen. Why did I always think she would be willing to listen?

“My dear,” she cooed and sat beside me. “You were chosen, hand-picked by our elders to pass judgment on those unworthy of living among us, those who have sinned, who have tarnished our faith with their slander and their vile tongues.”

She swept a hand through my hair and brushed her fingers down my cheek. “You honor this family with your noble work. Do not be afraid of this gift, son.”

“But I am, Mother. The things I’ve seen, the things I’ve done–”

“You do as The Order wills you. That is your task.”

“But the things I’m doing, killing those people–”

She patted my knee. “Those are not people anymore, Jonathan. They are sinners, and they deserve the punishment you are granting them. While they may face death at your blade, their release is holy and purifying. They may live in this world as sinners, but through your guidance, through your hands, they are freed and saved.”

Freed. Saved. More lies. More bullshit.

“Do you understand me, son?”

She wouldn’t listen. She would never listen.

“Yes, Mother.”

She grabbed my chin and turned my head. “Do you accept the honor you have been given, and do you vow to fulfill your duty for the betterment of The Order and the town?”

I sighed. “Yes, Mother.”

She stood from the bed and retreated to the doorway. “Then get ready, or we’ll be late.” She chuckled and pressed her hand to her heart. “Imagine! The Passer of Judgments arriving late for a meeting. It’s unheard of!”

She left, and the click of her heels on the wood floors echoed her dismissal.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The church basement smelt of burnt wood and ash. I gagged on the odor as the robbed Order members led me to the prep room. They dismissed themselves at the door, and inside, two teenage girls, a few years younger than myself, stood in attendance dressed in white, floor-length gowns. 

I approached the center of the room and dropped to my knees, bare except for my underwear. The girls, solemn-faced as always, stood at my sides and methodically pulled the ropes before them, lowering the iron pyramid mask over my head.

Its weight bit into my shoulders, and my teeth gritted against themselves to brace against the pain. Once the helmet was balanced on me, the girls released the ropes and yanked the leather belts at the helmet’s sides beneath my arms, tightening them in place with the buckles. One of them kneeled before me and guided a third leather strap beneath my chin to balanced the weight of the helmet. That strap ensured my silence as well–and my protests.

The helmet smelt of rust and dried blood, the stains of past meetings under The Order’s guidance. With my jaw pinched shut by the leather, I could hardly move my head without shifting the weight of the helmet and sending a bolt of pain down my spine.

The girls offered two crutches, one at each arm, and I braced my weight against them and stood with a grunt. Unable to see except through the narrow grates of the iron and beneath its collar, I let the girls guide me.

They offered me a pair of pristine white gloves and helped me pulled them on. The fabric was soft–too soft for what these hands would soon be forced to do. The cotton was smooth around my fingers but tight and restricting at the wrists like handcuffs. 

They lifted a butcher’s apron to my waist and tied it in place. They pulled off my boxers, and I stepped out of them. No larger sin than leaving a meeting with non-ceremonial clothes stained by the blood of the worthless sinners.

They lifted the Great Knife from the stand on the side table and set its birth against the ground. They guided my hand onto its hilt, and with nothing else sturdy in my world of which to cling, I gripped the blade with white knuckles and released a long, deep breath to ease the pressure at my shoulders. 

The girls draped their arms through mine and led me through the door of the prep room and into the alter where tonight’s batch of new sinners awaited me and the saving bite of my holy blade.


End file.
